The Song We Were Singing
by DoctorDolenz9
Summary: Not ATU. Paul McCartney has writer's block. An old friend has something to say about that. Told from Paul's POV, takes place in the late 1990's. Rated t for some slight language.


The Song We Were Singing

I had writers block. I don't know why, but I did. It was strange; usually I could write a song in my sleep (and sometimes I actually did) but for some reason I couldn't think of anything.

"Bloody hell!" I shouted to myself, crumpling up another piece of paper and throwing it across the room. Linda and the kids were asleep and it was late, almost 2AM, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I could get a stupid song out.

But I was so tired. I needed to get this over with. As a last hope, I called out to my old songwriting partner.

"If you're listening, Johnny boy, I need your help. Help me think of something… I need you."

And with that I fell asleep.

"Wanna take a break?" John asked. "I play one more chord and my hand is gonna bloody fall off!"

I laughed. "Sure, Johnny boy. If you feel we should."

We had been playing all morning and most of the afternoon, just sitting in John's bedroom throwing chords and words together. Most didn't make any sense but the ones that did would become a song.

John had put his guitar off to the side and sprawled out across his bed, his head ending up in my lap.

He grinned at me evilly.

"Hello there, McCartney," he said with mock seriousness.

"Hello there, Lennon," I didn't even bother trying to be serious.

I put down my guitar and John took out a pack of cigarettes.

"Want one?" he offered.

I took it, and he lit one for each of us.

We sat or, in John's case, laid there in silence for a bit, just smoking and resting. Who knew songwriting could be such hard work?

"Songwriting takes a lot out of ya, don't it Paulie?" John said sitting up. "If it was a sport I bet we'd be superstars, huh?"

I laughed, having just had the same thought.

"The best," I agreed sarcastically. "I mean, who doesn't love a song with three chords and three words?" referring to the song we had just been working on.

"Quiet, you," John scolded jokingly. "Let's see who's laughing when it becomes a hit!"

"Still me, because it's my song, too."

John playfully slapped my arm.

"Shut it, Mack."

I grinned like an idiot. I was actually getting on his nerves.

My fun, however, was short-lived, as John's aunt called us for dinner.

"Hey, Macca?" John whispered.

"I sat up sleepily. "Hm?"

"I don't feel like going to sleep."

"You wanna talk then?" I asked, slightly more awake now. I was used to not sleeping when I stayed over at John's. We usually talked all night.

"Sure," John said smiling because I knew him so well. "What about?"

"You're the one who wants to stay up," I reminded him and moved to sit on the bed with him. "Anything you like."

John made the most devilish face and I knew what he was thinking.

"Anything?" he asked, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

I slapped his leg, annoyed and slightly amused. I was used to this by now.

"Really John, of all things you could come up with? No, we're not talking about that!"

"Fine," John pouted. "I'll try to be good. So how's school?"

I laughed, knowing my school meant nothing to him.

"Its fine, Johnny, boring as usual. Besides, you know I ditch half the time."

"Really?" John asked with fake surprise. "Now why would you do that?"

"Oh, you know," I responded, playing along, "other things to do."

"Such as?" John continued to tease, smiling.

"Well, there's this friend I have. He's a bit older and goes to another school. Sometimes we blow off class together and write songs instead."

John smiled. "How does it go again?"

"Love, love me do. You know I love you. I'll always be true. So please…"

"Love me do," John finished, poking me in the side. "It's a good one, Macca. I can just feel it. You wanna finish it now?" he asked, picking his guitar up from where he had left it.

"Sure, Johnny boy," I answered, grabbing mine, "but we have to be quiet or Mimi won't let me stay over anymore."

John rolled his eyes at me. "You worry too much, ya know that?" he asked, bumping my left arm.

He started playing chords in a random order, waiting for something brilliant to materialize.

It always did.

"Hey Macca, you wanna get us some Cokes while you're in there?" John shouted from the sitting area of our hotel room.

I grabbed two bottles from the fridge and joined my bandmate.

We were messing about on our guitars, not really writing or playing anything in particular, and John looked a bit distant.

"It's like being in a fishbowl, isn't it?" he asked looking out the window. "I mean, we see the entire world but we don't really see anything except the hotel room ̶ and whatever can be seen from the window."

He got up and walked across the room, looking at the New York streets below us. I took another drink of my Coke and joined him.

"View's not half bad, though," I commented, trying to be optimistic.

"Paul, we're in freaking New York City and we can't go and do anything! I miss Paris, you know. Just being tourists."

"Can't have it both ways, Johnny boy," I reminded him. "If you want to be famous this comes with the territory."

"I know, Mack. Now stop being so freaking right all the time!" he joked, bumping my arm like he always did.

"C'mon, John let's go to bed or Eppy will kill us for being dead at whatever the hell he's got planned for us tomorrow," I said, putting my guitar back into its case.

"A hard day's night, eh?" he smiled at his joke.

"Always goes back to music with you, doesn't it?" I asked, also smiling.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way."

I could hear John's guitar from the other room. Just from the sound, I knew exactly what day it was: July 15th. John was mourning.

I followed the distressing sound into the room he was sharing with George to find John sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the ground while strumming sad, loud chords on his guitar.

"You, okay?" I asked sitting down next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. I knew what it felt like to lose a mother and felt like I needed to be there for him.

After a minute of sitting motionless in silence, John looked up at me, his face expressionless, except for his eyes. Usually mischievous and bright, I could see an intense sadness and pain in John's eyes.

"No," he whispered, voice cracking, "'m not."

He buried his face in my shoulder and I let him cry for a bit.

"Why did it have to happen to us, Paulie?" he whimpered after a while.

"I don't know, Johnny boy," I choked, unable to hold back my own tears any longer. "Sometimes these things just happen but no one knows why."

"I wish it didn't," he mumbled. "I want her back."

"So do I, luv. I know it's not fair but it happened," I squeezed his shoulders tighter. "We can't bring them back."

"I'm glad you're here, Macca. I don't know what I'd do without you," he smiled a little bit.

I smiled, too. "Glad to be of service, sir." Then I added, "I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

"You know, if you break my heart I'll go, but I'll be back again," John sang.

"My god, does everything go back to our music with you?" I joked.

"Well it keeps me out of prison, doesn't it?" the shine had returned to his eyes as he picked up his guitar again. "Speaking of music," he grabbed my guitar for me, too, "let's practice."

I woke up to find tears streaming down my face. It took me a minute to realize what had happened.

Then I remembered. The late nights. The touring. The music. John.

I broke down again, just like I always have after these dreams. I miss him so much. I miss everything about him: his wit, his music, his smile, his love.

He was sending his music back to the world through me, though. I could just feel it.

It was all coming back to me now. Music was coming again and the words started flowing out like they always did.

I could feel him with me now, encouraging me, just like as teenagers, as I wrote about the only thing that felt right: writing with John.

I hummed the melody to myself a few times, determined to get it perfect, and added lyrics that would perfectly describe the sensation of being with John at those times. Words cannot describe.

I turned off the only light in the room and sat there in the darkness. It was too late to go into my bedroom because I didn't want to risk waking Linda, so I tried to fall asleep on the couch where I was.

Lying there in the pitch dark, I called out to my best friend and true soul mate once more.

"Come back, Johnny, I miss you. I love you."

And as I closed my eyes, I could almost feel a light tough on my left arm, as if he was sitting next to me.

And in the final moment before sleep overcame me for the night, I could hear his soft and soothing voice, just as it had been thirty years ago.

"I love you too, Paul. Always have, always will."


End file.
